Tremors
by CompassLove7
Summary: Neal finds himself physically effected by Kate's death in a way that's completely new to him.


I dont own White Collar blah blah blah

This had been floating around in my head for a while. Enjoy!

Neal was sitting at his desk in the bullpen, staring at the mind-numbingly dull report in front of him. He would have blamed Peter, but the older man had given it to Neal in hopes that endless paper work would both ease Neal into working again and keep his mind off Kate. It had done the exact opposite. When one was as intelligent as Neal, your mind could easily perform a menial task and think about something else at the same time. Joy. So there Neal sat, thinking about the woman he loved dying. He filled out page after page, barely seeing what was in front of him. That was, until his pen ran out of ink. He stared at it for a moment, lost in his thoughts and completely confused by what had interrupted his brooding. Neal sighed, and reached for a new pen. There. What was that? Neal's highly observant mind and clear eyes caught a slight motion in his hand when he had extended it. It was, a tremor? No, Neal thought, I don't tremble. His hands had replicated countless paintings, picked countless locks and pockets and carved the most intricate forgeries, and hands that do those sorts of things don't tremble. But, there was no denying it, Neal's hand had shook for a brief moment. He sat there, troubled, but Peter's voice jerked him out of it, and the anomaly was forgotten.

Neal was at home that evening, lounging, in the way that only Neal Caffrey can lounge, on his couch, reading a book. He had recently become interested in the Russian Revolution, and the fate of the Romanovs, or more specifically, their countless jewels. So he read, trying to keep his mind off Kate, and trying to stop himself from replaying the explosion over and over again. Photographic memory, a blessing and a curse. He turned the page, and there it was again. That tiny, almost imperceptible shake, that could only be seen if you were looking for it. Neal sat foward abruptly, the book forgotten in his lap. Not good, he thought, not good at all. He gropped on his coffee table, finally finding a piece of paper. Trying to calm his nerves, he put out a hand and lightly lay the paper on his upward palm. Oh no. The paper made it more obvious. His hand had a slight but definate tremble to it. He hastily put down the paper, mind racing. How? he wondered. Since when did his hands shake? He never, ever had an issue with that before. Why now? Neal swallowed, not knowing the answer.

Later that week, Neal and Peter were at a crime scene, staring at a nail in the wall, where a painting had once hung. Neal's hands were stuffed into his pockets, as they had been all week. He was terrified that somebody would notice his tremor, which had grown more pronounced daily. Also, he didn't exactly want to look at his hands either. They were the tools of his trade. And whatever Peter may say, Neal was still a conman, a forger and an art theif, and trembling hands were simply not atributes of his profession. Steady, infalliable hands were a must in his world, and shakes were signs of weakness and ineptitude. Peter called his name again, louder this time. Neal started, and answered Peter's question about possible entry points. Not satisfied, Peter turned away. Dammit, he knew Neal well enough to tell when something was very, very wrong. Neal still had the haunted look in his eyes months after Kates death, but it had faded slightly. But now, it was replaced by something different. Nervousness, confusion, agitation, and... fear? Whatever (else) Neal was going through, Peter didn't like it. Neal walked over to the door and crouched to examine the lock. Peter watched the young man and found himself wondering where Neals confidence had gone. Sure, he had definatly lost some of his classic swagger after Kates death, but now, Neal emitted a sense of insecurity that Peter found particularly unsettling. Something was wrong, and as Neal's partner, and his friend, Peter was determined to figure out what.

Neal opened to door to his apartment, letting the small man inside. Mozzie shook his bald head and scowled at the rain that was pounding outside. He sat at the table and looked at Neal expectantly. While Neal invited him over constantly, and he invited himself just as much, Neal had sounded urgent and slightly nervous on the phone. Neal sat, then stood again and paced the kitchen, deep in thought. Mozzie, as accostomed to Neals ways as Neal himself, quirked an eyebrow. Neal wasn't one for pacing let alone so intensly. "Neal." Mozzie said. "Tell me whats going on"

Neal looked at his friend, and Mozzie started, surprised by the raw emotion in Neals eyes. Full of despair, the cerulean blue convayed distress that words could not have. Neal flopped into a chair, head down, hair in hands. "I don't know Mozzie, I just don't know." Neal's voice was muffled and he peeked up at Mozzie. "Have you ever heard of one of us," he paused, making sure Mozzie caught his drift. With a nod from the bald man across from him, he continued. "being, physically effected? By something?" Neal trailed off, aware of how inadequetly he had explained himself. Mozzie however, was quite perceptive, and understood Neal immediatly. "You mean Kate, don't you?" he asked softly, winceing internally when Neal flinched at the sound of her name.

"What's happening?" Mozzie asked, and Neal stood to show, rather than tell him. He pulled a wine glass out of the cupboard and set it in front of Mozzie. He retrieved the bottle, and upon opening it, with some difficulty Mozzie noted, started to pour slowly. Mozzie saw it immediatly, and sat foward in his chair, not believing his eyes. Neals continued to pour the wine, the slow stream of amber liquid swaying and the bottle shaking as Neal's trembling hand stuggled to hold it steady. Neal set the bottle down and stared at Mozzie, depair in his face. Mozzie, for once, was at a loss for words. Never had he seen Neals hand ever shake, wobble or tremble. They were the steadiest in the buisness, maybe the world. Mozzie had watched Neal work many times, and always marveled at how steady his friends hands were. Now though, Neal could hardly pour wine.

"Well?" asked Neal, desperation in his voice, "What's wrong with me?"  
Mozzie sat back, his heart heavy with the answer to Neals question "You're greiving Neal" he said softly and sadly. "You loved Kate so much, that your emotions alone are not enough. It's not enough that you experience great mental pain. Your over-burdened mind is projecting your grief through your whole body. Your hands shake because that's part of the way your body is coping with the great emotion burden it is carrying. It can't keep it all in your head, your love and now your greif is just too much. Your hands are shaking because your grieving Neal. I'm sorry" Mozzie added, throughly depressed by what was happening to his friend. Neal put his head in his now useless hands, overwhelmed by the idea of how much his mind, and body alike, grieved for Kate. Mozzie patted his shoudler in a rare show of physical affection. "It'll pass Neal. It may take some time, but eventually, your mind, your heart, and your body will heal itself. Times goes on buddy" Neal lifted his head and gave his friend a weak smile. "Thanks Moz," he said softly "I'm okay" Mozzie shook his head "No, you aren't. But you will be." The bald man got his coat and touched his friends shoulder one more time before stepping out of the apartment, leaving Neal slightly comforted. Soon, Neal was alone with a glass of wine, trembling hands, and his thoughts.


End file.
